I found Makoto Ueda’s Modern Japanese Writers and the Nature of Literature when I typed “Dazai” into my library catalogue’s search bar. Even after reading several other books by and/or about the man, the mind hungers to know more. 

Ueda’s book contains eight essays on then-modern Japanese writers: Natsume Sōseki, Nagai Kafū, Tanizaki Jun'ichirō, Shiga Naoya, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, Dazai Osamu, Kawabata Yasunari, and Mishima Yukio. Like other older works I’ve bumped into, Ueda’s choice of subject is praised as “diverse.” I again felt odd—today the praise “diverse” implies a variety of gender and racial minorities are involved—and hopeful—see how less white supremacist we’ve become as a society. Each chapter speculates on the respective author’s theory of literature and concept/purpose of writing. Ueda tackles this broad topic by splitting it into five sub-categories: (1) art versus nature, (2) the literary work and the author, (3) the literary work and the reader, (4) structure and style, and (5) the purpose of literature. 

Because it’s been a long while since my university literature theory class, and I’d only read Dazai-san’s works before, I only read the introduction and Ueda’s chapter on him. As I work my way to other authors, I may return to Modern Japanese Writers. Stretching old analysis muscles felt good, and Ueda’s prose is refreshing and accessible. 

That being said, I had the feeling I was reading a math problem where the mathematician used the wrong formula, but came at the right conclusion. Dazai-san is a tricky author to pin down. He stashes bits of himself every place, but never enough to give you a full sense of the flesh-and-blood Tsushima Shūji-san. There’s “Dazai” the pen name and public persona, “Dazai” the recurring character in his work, and “Ōba Yōzō” or other characters whose life experiences match up to Tsushima-san’s (sort of, kind of, if you squint). I thought it was a given in Dazai-san literary criticism that one doesn’t take the guy at his word. That’s how I interact with him, and other essayists like Keene, O’Brien, and Gibeau encouraged me to do so. Yet Ueda frequently takes what Dazai-the-character-in-a-fiction says as absolute truth. This analysis seriously weakened his arguments for me. As a writer myself, I know better than anyone that writers are liars. 

I was in the midst of seriously questioning Ueda’s scholarship when he cited a letter to Siga Naoya-san to back up his arguments. Saying that Shiga-san was too “strong,” Dazai-san wrote “Become a little weaker. Be weak, if you are a man of letters. Be more flexible. Try to understand people who are different from you; try to understand their agonies.” Basically, have compassion for all humans and their foibles. Not necessarily in a “all people think they’re the protagonist” way, but in a “everybody has their reasons and their hurt” sort of way. Humans are wretched. Show the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and show the ideal and the nobility in that too. Be a friend to the disabled, the losers, delinquents, minorities, and the poor. Literature provides comfort, sympathy; consolation. Since Dazai-san was writing to another writer, advising on their craft, being critical of Shiga-san, and sending a message that seems in line with his work—I was convinced on this point. Despite all the weirdness that had come before, Ueda arrived at a conclusion I agree with. The empathetic thesis is fitting for an author whose works make so many neurodivergent people feel not alone. 

Overall, Modern Japanese Writers and the Nature of Literature was an insightful read—in a very sideways manner. I might pick it up for a second time, but only if I have a very specific itch.